


The Solitary Sequel (To Never Knowing Anything At All)

by AppleSharon



Series: (I Wanna) Call It Love [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romance, Sexual Tension, so much pining tbh, somewhat slow burn because Aziraphale is oblivious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-05-01 23:04:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19187080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleSharon/pseuds/AppleSharon
Summary: Aziraphale, the aforementioned angel in this equation, was currently many things, the first of which being well and truly drunk. The second of which being wholly, and with every fibre of his heavenly being, in love with Crowley despite not having realized it himself. Of course he loved Crowley, but it was the “in” part that he hadn’t quite gotten around to identifying yet.After the near end of all things, Aziraphale and Crowley move forward together.It just may take a bit more time, in addition to the 6,000 or so odd years between them.





	1. Prologue

There comes a time in most modern humans' lives, typically when they’ve finished, or are about to finish, some sort of regulated schooling, where life seems to stretch endlessly before them as they contemplate what to do with the rest of their existence. 

Naturally this isn’t decided right away by most of them. And some of them, rather regrettably, don’t have the amount of time they might think that they have. Yet, they begin cordoning off sections and slices of time, piecing them out in order to deal with what seems to be a rather intimidating and insurmountable length of time. Simply put, they cannot comprehend what to do with themselves without a bit of foresight and planning. Even the most self-identified reckless humans of all still operate within certain parameters. 

However, Crowley — despite his rather mundane and very human “Anthony J” attachment to the Crowley surname, née the demon called Crawly — and Aziraphale were decidedly not human, even when taking recent events into consideration and their declaration of choosing a side, that side being their own and one allied with humanity. 

Demons and angels, of course, aren’t faced with the same endless, rather terrifying stretch of simply existing because their existences are wrapped up in purpose and their lives known to be fairly eternal, with a few notable exceptions. Simply put, angels and demons have time. Loads of time, in fact. So much time that they may not realize how much something has changed within themselves until much later after the fact. Of course, not many angels and demons go about changing all that much, and the two notable exceptions are the stars of this story. 

Angels and demons are granted purpose by their very existence. A human life is miniscule by comparison, and involves, as Aziraphale and Crowley have both observed during their tenure on Earth, a search for purpose. 

Crowley was a rather organized demon (albeit inquisitive to a fault) if he did say so himself, although his reputation with Aziraphale was one of spontaneity, which, as the story continues will be revealed to be a quite important misunderstanding that will need to be resolved before repairing their relationship by the by. 

Currently, Crowley was thinking of none of this. 

It wasn’t that the demon did not know Aziraphale’s perception or view of him. Crowley had simply acquiesced to it years ago and had, he told himself, moved on accordingly. After all, Crowley didn’t have a limited human life, but that of an immortal demon (again, barring a few specific ways he could be killed, one of which had been thwarted a few days prior thanks to a particularly brilliant plan which he still credited himself for thank you very much). 

Crowley wasn’t even musing on his own purpose since it had not effectively changed. He had always been on his own side rather than Hell’s — his own side and Aziraphale’s side of course. And following the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, Crowley had managed to hold onto everything he held fiercely close to his (strictly figuratively) large heart, chiefly, the red-cheeked angel currently well in his cups seated across the table from him at the Ritz. 

Here is where the story will place a figurative pin in Crowley’s side of this particular tale. It may be a bit unfair, after all, he’s been waiting so long, but there will be much more on him later. 

Aziraphale, the aforementioned angel in this equation, was currently many things, the first of which being well and truly drunk. The second of which being wholly, and with every fibre of his heavenly being, in love with Crowley despite not having realized it himself. Of course he loved Crowley, but it was the “in” part that he hadn’t quite gotten around to identifying yet. 

And the third of which was completely without a purpose. At least, in his own head Aziraphale found himself quite suddenly lacking a certain justification in which, until very recently, he had reveled.

Of the two, Aziraphale had always been the more rigid one. Crowley had — in what Aziraphale, arguably erroneously, considered to be his weaker moments — always been able to tempt Aziraphale into certain things, usually a meal, some wine, a dessert or two, and a good debate where Aziraphale would stubbornly stick to the side he had chosen. While Crowley’s side had, for millennia now, been just the two of them against the world and Crowley was well aware of this, Aziraphale believed, wholeheartedly despite ultimately lacking the physical organ, that he still was doing God’s bidding above all else. 

Aziraphale didn’t just love humanity and all living things as his purpose, he loved having a purpose. Even if he didn’t always agree with his superior’s instructions, and Gabriel often put a bad taste in his mouth even before the events of the Apocalypse-that-wasnt, Aziraphale had loved the very idea of having a purpose. It gave him guidance, even if he broke the rules every now and again for his human charges — and Aziraphale did consider every last human his charge. They were his purpose. Serving heaven was his purpose. 

And for this reason, Aziraphale found himself quite bereft, although he’d hardly admitted it yet. 

As they he and Crowley had grown closer due to recent experiences, Aziraphale’s mind had often wandered, when he’d allowed it to, towards the subject of Crowley’s existence, particularly where the demon’s former divinity was concerned. Crowley, Aziraphale told himself repeatedly and once to Crowley aloud during their recent trials, had been an angel once too. When Aziraphale let his mind wander even further — often when he was either very drunk before sobering up or simply in a contemplative mood, surrounded by the musty smell of books in his office in the wee hours of the morning — he contemplated Crowley’s actions which he had to admit to himself, with quick and swift admonishment to follow, weren’t all that evil and it was tragic that Crowley had been cast from God’s light. Crowley truly cared, and this was a moral dilemma for Aziraphale who had been brought up to believe that all demons were incapable of love regardless of circumstance. 

Of course, Aziraphale wasn’t actively thinking of all of this now — nor did he actively think of it quite often until, it bears repeating, very recently — yet that didn’t mean that all of these thoughts weren’t present. Their very presence was what brought this particular story into existence. 

Now, Aziraphale was sitting across from Crowley, recounting the story of his time in Hell as Crowley and how he had splashed around in a tub full of holy water. His cheeks were flushed with one too many glasses of wine and he leaned back in his chair, resting one hand on his stomach as it grazed the buttons of his vest while the other waved in the air in splashing mimicry. 

Returning to that figurative pin that was Crowley, in that moment he was thinking, behind black lenses that seemed permanently attached to his face, that Aziraphale was the most beautiful being he had ever seen in his many years of existing.


	2. It's the breaking of the waves that were about to really carry someplace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _During the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, Crowley had experienced a life without Aziraphale. It wasn’t a life he wanted. For now at least, Crowley was perfectly happy to be at Aziraphale’s side, for as long as the angel would have him._
> 
> _After all, Crowley reasoned, it was far too late to come out and say, “I fell in love with you in the garden, no not St. James’ Park but The Garden, capitalized.” Especially when he was certain that Aziraphale’s response would be a sympathetic rejection. The most awful part about it would be Aziraphale’s overwhelming kindness._
> 
> _Crowley wouldn’t be able to stand it, really._

A random signal composed of equal frequencies giving said signal constant power spectral density — or as it’s commonly called, white noise — is frequently used by humanity in matters of physics, telecommunications, acoustical engineering, and statistical forecasting as well as treatment of tinnitus and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.

Without delving too far into the scientific specifics, one of the ideas behind the figurative naming of something as “white noise” is to demonstrate how a random signal of equal frequencies — like the fuzzy sound from an old television that is placed on a channel that doesn’t exist — can drown out other, more distracting and sharper sounds. Humans spend exorbitant amounts (in comparison to the cost of manufacturing, of course*) on machines that dispense white noise in the form of a fan sound, a passing thunderstorm, or a veldt at nighttime, in service of falling asleep. 

(For the record, Crowley would have simply listened to a Queen song before falling asleep, whereas Aziraphale, who did not sleep, would have stayed up reading while perhaps listening and marveling at the passing thunderstorm sounds.) 

A human with tinnitus, for example, with constant ringing in their ears, would find the ringing synchronized with the ambient white noise provided, causing their brain to believe that the ringing had disappeared if only for a short time. In reality, all it does is mask the sound. It’s a bit like pinching the inside of your wrist forcefully when suffering from a headache. The human brain will focus on the immediate pain in the wrist, providing temporary headache relief. 

As an angel, the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, et cetera, was imbued with a love of all things. He could sense love in a way that might seem similar to a human sensing weather phenomena like wind, humidity, or temperature. 

Dramatic shifts in either direction were immediately felt, but for the most part, once acclimated, Aziraphale felt a dull, happy hum of love all around with one notable exception. 

Crowley. 

Crowley was very much in love with Aziraphale and, since he was additionally aware of his own feelings, emitted a strong feeling of love in Aziraphale’s presence frequently. 

Yet, say that Aziraphale had been feeling this strong sense of love for, oh 6,000 years. There would be an initial spike at the beginning, yes, but then it would settle into a low hum just like the ambient love from the world. 

Through the years it had ebbed and flowed like the tides, but ultimately remained a reliable constant. In fact, when Aziraphale became a bit despondent at some of the more horrid things that humans did to each other without Crowley’s demonic encouragement, it was this steady flow of love that helped him overcome such moods. 

Aziraphale simply wasn’t aware (yet) that this presence was Crowley. 

And if Aziraphale had been a touch out-of-sorts during Crowley’s extended sleep, well, who was to say that a lack of Crowley’s love was responsible. 

With the knowledge that Aziraphale could feel patterns of love, Crowley had (incorrectly) assumed that Aziraphale had received these feelings over time and, as angels were wont to do, loved him back in a general way. It certainly wasn’t the love that Crowley wanted — or in his more prurient moments, dreamed of with all of his creative and vivid imagination — but over the 6,000 years the two had effectively spent together on Earth, had come to accept.

During the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, Crowley had experienced a life without Aziraphale. It wasn’t a life he wanted. For now at least, Crowley was perfectly happy to be at Aziraphale’s side, for as long as the angel would have him. 

After all, Crowley reasoned, it was far too late to come out and say, “I fell in love with you in the garden, no not St. James’ Park but The Garden, capitalized.” Especially when he was certain that Aziraphale’s response would be a sympathetic rejection. The most awful part about it would be Aziraphale’s overwhelming kindness. 

Crowley wouldn’t be able to stand it, really. 

Unbeknownst to Crowley, in the days following the near-end of the world Aziraphale had done a lot of introspection. More specifically, his mind had wandered towards his meeting with Crowley in 1941 during the Blitz. 

Aziraphale could recall every moment of their exchange, the cut of Crowley’s suit, the somehow graceful way he had hopped on tiptoe across consecrated ground. His physical corporation had suddenly felt lighter, hotter. It was only natural that Aziraphale would thrill at the confirmation of Crowley’s existence, Aziraphale thought to himself. 

Of course, the walls always had ears, so to speak, and Aziraphale couldn’t say this to Crowley aloud, but he hoped it came across, even in his crossness and embarrassment at his own foolishness. 

Yet, nothing had compared to the sheer joy when Crowley had plucked his leather bag from the wreckage and returned Aziraphale’s first editions. In the limited time that Crowley had given him to adjust, Aziraphale hadn’t thought to save anyone but the two of them, taking extra care to ensure that any errant splashing from a nearby font of holy water didn’t come anywhere near Crowley’s vicinity. It wasn’t until after the fact that Aziraphale had even remembered the books. 

All he had thought about at the time was Crowley. 

Crowley, who had given him time to accept and adjust to the plan. Crowley, who had walked on holy ground and burned his feet for him. Crowley, who had taken the time to save something so precious to him.

It meant that Crowley knew how much Aziraphale loved these books. Aziraphale couldn’t remember a time when Crowley had taken any specific interest in human literature, but Crowley had still remembered that it meant a great deal to him. 

Since this particular meeting, something since then had been ever-so-slightly off between the two of them in Aziraphale’s opinion. Not in a bad way, but different. It was a shift, or another ebb of the tide. Their relationship had changed and Aziraphale couldn’t place his finger on exactly what had done it. 

Such introspection was uncommon for Aziraphale — although for an angel he was more inquisitive and introspective than most — who if he was being completely honest, spent most of his thoughts on his wayward human charges and their culture in an effort to avoid questioning the goings-on of up above. It wasn’t that he was unintelligent, quite the opposite actually, but that in an effort to toe the party line, he focused that intelligence in pursuit of other things. 

Aziraphale was perfectly content with his life, or had been until the recent near-end of his routine. 

And so, if he called Crowley every day now, who was to stop him? Their prophesied body swap had bought both angel and demon a bit of breathing room (strictly figuratively), which meant that Aziraphale could not only resume his routine, but include more of Crowley in it. Naturally this included more lunches, more walks through the park, and more late nights with Crowley sprawled in his back office couch at the restored bookshop. It was just as comfortable as it had ever been, only moreso. 

Aziraphale was blissfully happy for the most part, outside of a few lows when he paused to think of his newfound lack of direction from up above. 

Like that time in 1941, things were about to change and Aziraphale, despite his aforementioned intelligence, couldn’t see it coming, especially in a place of such habit and comfort as the Ritz. 

“You should take off those glasses sometimes, Crowley. Your eyes are so beautiful,” Aziraphale found himself saying. 

Was that what he had wanted to say? No matter. It was the truth regardless. 

He had just finished recounting, for the fifth time, the lighter part of his adventures down below in Crowley’s corporation. In each of his retellings, Aziraphale had focused on the splashing and asking for a rubber duck. He had pointedly neglected to tell Crowley about the despair he had felt in every fibre of Crowley’s body. 

If Crowley’s bosses were to come calling in the future, Aziraphale would do everything in his power to keep Crowley from having to go to that place ever again. 

Crowley quirked an eyebrow and opted to sip his glass of wine in lieu of a response. 

“I’m serious, dear.”

It didn’t help that this was punctuated by a slight hiccup that Aziraphale had tried desperately to swallow. He couldn’t quite master suppressing them. 

“And reveal to everyone in the restaurant that I’m a big bad demon? Nope.”

Crowley popped the “p” sound for a dramatic flourish.

Aziraphale harumphed softly.

“If people ask, you can simply tell them that they’re those coloured contacts that young people tend to wear.”

“What young people have you been hanging out with lately, angel?”

Crowley waggled his eyebrows suggestively at Aziraphale and loomed over the table, draping himself against his chair.

Sighing, Aziraphale rose from his own seat, swaying a bit under the alcohol’s influence.

“I’m going to relieve myself,” he whispered. Aziraphale was aiming for discreet, but based on Crowley’s smirk he had been anything but. 

His cheeks were hot and flushed when Aziraphale looked up in the mirror. He didn’t actually need to relieve himself, but splashed a bit of cold water on his face all the same. 

Upon exiting the water closet, Aziraphale saw one of the waitresses bending suggestively over Crowley at their table while handing the demon their bill. 

Unprompted, Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. 

This happened fairly frequently, sometimes when Aziraphale was still at the table. After all, Crowley’s human vessel was quite conventionally attractive. Aziraphale cast a quick look of sad betrayal at the rise of his own stomach under his waistcoat. 

Any longer look would have been vanity. Although sometimes he could hear Gabriel’s voice, unprompted, telling him to lose the gut. 

Aziraphale sighed, head spinning somewhat unpleasantly. 

As he approached the table, he could hear the voices of the waitstaff chatting idly in the kitchen. 

“She’s going for it,” one of the waitresses said. She had husky voice that was pleasant to Aziraphale’s ears. 

“I wish I had her confidence. She’ll be pulling in well above her station,” a waiter said with a sniff. 

Aziraphale thought that was rather uncharitable of the waiter to say so. Crowley was a demon, but he didn’t exude any sort of disagreeable aura that would deter someone from approaching him. And the woman in question was quite pretty, with black hair piled high on her head, a slender neck, and a pointed nose. She and Crowley would make, by all appearances, a fashionable couple, one that would turn heads in the streets of London.

Yet something about it bothered Aziraphale. 

“Yeah, that one is a looker,” the waitress with the husky voice responded. “Those cheekbones, the height. The glasses make him look mysterious, but not like he’s trying.” 

“And those lips!” A higher-pitched voice chimed in. “He has the perfect pout, but they look so soft. What I wouldn’t give to—”

Her voice faded into the noise of the restaurant as Aziraphale approached his and Crowley’s table. 

“—if you’ll be in town next week,” the dark-haired waitress at their table was saying to Crowley.

Aziraphale studied Crowley for a moment. 

The demon was, as Aziraphale had already established, conventionally attractive in a way that humans enjoyed. He had to disagree with the other staff members on Crowley’s sunglasses. After all, Crowley’s eyes were one of his best features, a true gold color and snake-like. He couldn’t imagine Crowley without those eyes. A selfish part of him, likely brought on by drink, whispered in his mind that he loved Crowley’s eyes because he was one of the only beings privileged to see them. 

Crowley’s lips were another matter, and he couldn’t help but question their softness after the young woman had mentioned it. 

“You alright, angel?”

Crowley’s voice cut through his thoughts. It was acerbic as always, but Aziraphale thought he could hear an undercurrent of genuine concern. 

The pretty waitress was still awkwardly positioned next to Crowley, but seemed boggled by Aziraphale’s presence. 

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it then,” she said after another moment. 

“Ah, yes, thank you, miss,” Aziraphale said, taking his seat. She scurried off to another table. 

Crowley continued to look at Aziraphale in concern. 

“Ready to take our leave?” Aziraphale asked. “I have a mysterious bottle of red that Adam seems to have left me after the, ahem, restoration.” 

“By all meansssssss, angel.” 

Crowley allowed his s’s to drag in a way that Aziraphale admittedly loved. Like his eyes, this too was part of Crowley’s very essence. 

“Lead the way.”

And if Aziraphale made Crowley take off his sunglasses when it was just the two of them in the back of the bookstore, smiling and laughing about nothing in particular, well, who was to say that it wasn’t simply because Crowley’s eyes were beautiful?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *During my years as a retail manager, one of the items we sold at our stores was a white noise machine. It had the highest gross profit margin (eighty-eight percent) of any item in the store. 
> 
> The title of this chapter is also taken from the song "Minor Detail" by Sondre Lerche. 
> 
> Enjoy. ^ ^


	3. It's the ticking of the clock when you wake up alone at seven a.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Now, Aziraphale was wishing that he had forced Crowley out of his sunglasses ages ago. Currently, they were bright, albeit a bit unfocused from alcohol, staring off into an imaginative landscape that only Crowley could see, his slender fingers moving through space in a graceful way that was wholly Crowley._
> 
> _Graceful. He couldn’t think of a better way to describe the demon, really, and it wasn’t without a touch of irony._
> 
> _Aziraphale chuckled. He smiled widely, placing both of his hands gently on his stomach, and continued to watch Crowley._
> 
> _When had he begun to notice Crowley’s fingers?_
> 
> [Can We Dance (Instead of Walking?)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19264060) is an alternate Crowley perspective of this chapter, with background on when the two swapped bodies.

“The point is,” Crowley was saying. 

He was waving a first edition of Antoine de Saint Exupéry’s _Vol de Nuit_ wildly in the air. 

Hours earlier, the two had tripped through the door of the bookshop after a particularly good meal (according to Aziraphale) and several glasses of wine. Aziraphale, who prided himself on being a gracious host, had immediately ushered Crowley into the back of the bookshop, reminding him to remove his sunglasses. 

Grumbling, Crowley had acquiesced, squinting as his eyes took a bit of time to adjust, even in the low lamplight that Aziraphale kept in the bookshop for the purpose of the books themselves and Crowley’s general comfort, of course. 

Snakes’ vision ranged from remarkably poor to sharp, but was primarily focused on tracking movements for the purpose of hunting. Aziraphale wasn’t quite certain as to just how good Crowley’s vision was, and felt it best to err on the side of caution. Crowley had been a serpent, and had maintained many of his serpentine qualities in his human corporation. 

After all, Crowley wouldn’t be so insistent on wearing sunglasses if not for vision troubles, Aziraphale reasoned, and he wanted to make his friend as comfortable as possible. 

“The point is, no one ever found him did they?”

Since their night at the Ritz a few weeks prior, Aziraphale had instituted a strict — as strict as Aziraphale could be when it came to Crowley — no sunglasses after hours rule in the bookshop. Since nearly every hour was after hours (in Aziraphale’s best efforts to not actually sell the rare books he claimed to carry in the shop for the express purpose of selling them) and Crowley had taken to visiting the bookshop every day after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, this meant that Aziraphale had spent many evenings that had given way to the first hours of daylight watching myriad emotions flicker through Crowley’s golden eyes. 

Aziraphale had suspected that they would be expressive. He just hadn’t known how expressive. It was quite overwhelming at times, but in a joyful way that made Aziraphale comfortably rest his hands on the buttons of his waistcoat and wiggle his toes in satisfaction. 

The sight of Crowley’s eyes pleased Aziraphale in a way that he couldn’t explain, and truthfully, hadn’t bothered to think about all that much. 

“I know Patagonia doesn’t seem like your type of place, angel, but—“

They were beautiful eyes. Aziraphale couldn’t understand why Crowley had been so intent on hiding them for so long, especially since Crowley didn’t seem to truly mind — although he grumbled about it all the same and had taken to pulling sunglasses out of the haphazard stacks of manuscripts like one of Aziraphale’s attempted human magic tricks at young Warlock’s birthday parties. 

Now, Aziraphale was wishing that he had forced Crowley out of his sunglasses ages ago. Currently, they were bright, albeit a bit unfocused from alcohol, staring off into an imaginative landscape that only Crowley could see, his slender fingers moving through space in a graceful way that was wholly Crowley. 

Graceful. He couldn’t think of a better way to describe the demon, really, and it wasn’t without a touch of irony.

Aziraphale chuckled. He smiled widely, placing both of his hands gently on his stomach, and continued to watch Crowley.

When had he begun to notice Crowley’s fingers?

“Il s'aperçut qu'il avait peu à peu repoussé vers la vieillesse, pour ‘quand il aurait le temps’ ce qui fait douce la vie des hommes,” Crowley read aloud, still brandishing _Vol de Nuit_ like a weapon. 

Aziraphale, who hadn’t heard Crowley speak another language but English in what felt like several decades — not that it mattered whatsoever, both angel and demon could understand all human languages — looked up in astonishment. 

Through increasing encounters over several millennia, Aziraphale had made several observations about Crowley.

One. Crowley was, as previously mentioned, graceful. He didn’t simply exist in space, he moved through it like he owned it. Crowley slouched, stretched, took up as much space as his vessel would allow — without transforming into something more visibly demonic — but moved through space in a way that Aziraphale thought would inspire human artists. 

(Unbeknownst to Aziraphale at the time — despite being familiar with more than a few of the end results — Crowley had, at many times, inspired artists throughout human history.)

Two, Crowley was, what humans would call, physically attractive. Aziraphale himself had always found Crowley’s existence rather pleasing, to his own chagrin. Their first few meetings had been fraught with nerves on Aziraphale’s part as he tried to take a solid stance as Crowley’s opponent. After all, Crowley was a demon, albeit a beautiful one, and he was an angel, and beauty walked a gossamer-thin line of temptation.

_Yeah, that one is a looker. Those cheekbones, the height._

Aziraphale swallowed as the Ritz waitstaff’s assessment of Crowley rang in his ears, unbidden. Blinking, he made an effort to return his thoughts to what Crowley was saying, rather than the existence of Crowley as a whole. 

“Le règlement, pensait Rivière, est semblable aux rites d'une religion qui sssssssemblent absurdes mais façonnent les hommes,” Crowley continued in French. 

Crowley’s voice was slurring his s’s in a way that reminded Aziraphale of a snake and was, admittedly, quite endearing.

Three, although Crowley was inquisitive, intelligent, and more than a bit manipulative at times, he rarely bothered with certain parts of human culture. Reading books was one of these parts.

Aziraphale’s eyes moved down to Crowley’s lips as the demon’s tongue darted out frequently, wetting them as he spoke. 

“Angel?”

_He has the perfect pout, but they look so soft. What I wouldn’t give to—_

If only he hadn't paused to listen to the waitstaff's conversation, it wouldn't be popping into his head at extremely inconvenient times.

“Aziraphale!”

“Y-yes!?”

Roused from his unseemly train of thought, Aziraphale shook his head. When he looked up again, Crowley’s face was significantly closer than anticipated. 

“You alright?”

“Yes, yes, quite alright?”

It came out as a question rather than a statement. 

Crowley peered at him a bit longer. It occurred to Aziraphale that he should be intimidated by this, but he couldn’t feel anything but pinned to his seat by Crowley’s eyes, with a rising feeling of nervousness that was somehow also pleasant. 

He couldn’t identify it. Aziraphale found himself desperately wanting to say something.

“I had forgotten that you speak French, you wily old serpent!”

That wasn’t what he had wanted to say, but it would have to do for now. 

"And when did you have time to read _Vol du Nuit?"_

Aziraphale had meant to tease Crowley, but his voice came out in a rush of genuine pride that Crowley was actually taking interest in human literature. 

After regarding him for another minute or so, Crowley nodded and returned to his perch against a nearby chair. 

"The point is," Crowley began again, slightly more subdued. "They never found him."

The moment had passed. But again, something was different, and had been different since that night at the Ritz. 

Aziraphale just couldn’t quite, as his human charges would say, put his finger on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antoine de Saint Exupéry’s _Vol de Nuit_ (Night Flight) will appear again, likely from Crowley's perspective. He chose it for a reason.
> 
> When Crowley says, "No one ever found him, did they?" He could be referring to either: Fabien, a character in _Vol de Nuit_ , or the author himself, Antoine de Saint Exupéry, whose plane disappeared in 1944.  
>    
>  _"Il s'aperçut qu'il avait peu à peu repoussé vers la vieillesse, pour ‘quand il aurait le temps’ ce qui fait douce la vie des hommes.”_  
>  "He realized that he had put off, to old age, 'when he had the time' which makes the life of men sweet."
> 
>    
>  _"Le règlement, pensait Rivière, est semblable aux rites d'une religion qui semblent absurdes mais façonnent les hommes."_  
>  "'The regulation,' thought Rivière, 'is like the rites of a religion that seem absurd but shape men.'"
> 
> [Can We Dance (Instead of Walking?)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19264060) is an alternate Crowley perspective of this chapter, with background on when the two swapped bodies.


	4. It's the pounding in the heart whenever you are gone without any trace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They touched, briefly, and Aziraphale shuddered involuntarily._
> 
> _“Cold, angel?”_
> 
> _“No, quite alright. Just reached a rather scary part.”_
> 
> _Crowley raised an eyebrow._
> 
> _“A rather scary part of the_ Twelfth Night, or What You Will _?”_
> 
> _“Ah, yes?”_
> 
> _Crowley shrugged._
> 
> _“At least it’s not_ Hamlet _,” the demon said after a pause._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [An alternative telling of this chapter from Crowley's perspective can be found here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19264060/chapters/45865297)

When frequenting a gentlemen’s club at Portland Place many years ago — the very same club where Aziraphale learned the treacherous gavotte that made him the one angel in existence capable of dancing — Aziraphale had learned a very untoward anecdote regarding human anatomy.

(He had, in fact, learned several untoward anecdotes regarding human anatomy, among many other things, but this is the one that came to mind in this particular instance.)

When an angel in a human corporation imbibes too much alcohol, they can simply sober up whenever they deem it necessary. This gives them an advantage in drinking contents, and both Aziraphale and Crowley had won their fair share of those, although Aziraphale would never admit to his unless he was already drunk, Crowley boasted about his more impossible (for humans anyway) victories through the years more regularly than his supposed demonic accomplishments. 

It was rather endearing when Aziraphale paused to think on it. And he paused to think on it quite frequently since the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. 

Crowley rarely performed anything but the occasional, capricious prank. Most of his larger commendations from Hell had come from Crowley taking advantage of something that humanity had come up with all on its own — outside of the M25 (London Orbital Motorway) which, despite how it had somewhat hampered recent events, Crowley still took devilish pride in helping construct. 

Aziraphale noted that while Crowley enjoyed playing a game he called, “Yours, mine, or theirs” — a guessing game turned into multiple arguments over semantics as to whether a specific deed or human had been influenced or created by Heaven, Hell, or humanity itself —especially while drinking, he was quick to reiterate that the most horrifying actions on Earth were of humanity as a whole. 

Again, that church in 1941 came to mind and Aziraphale smiled beatifically to himself while recalling the memory. 

Crowley was, Aziraphale realized, somewhat astonishingly, an even better being than Aziraphale had previously thought. 

Aziraphale fought the part of his mind that immediately wished to punish him for such thoughts — traitorous to the side of Heaven. 

It was as Crowley had said, they did not have their former sides any longer. Truthfully, although Aziraphale had not gone as far to admit to himself this particular fact, they hadn’t had any side but their own (and that of humanity) for several millennia and possibly since The Garden. 

Aziraphale had done a surprising amount of thinking since the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. 

Shaking his head, Aziraphale cleared this tangentially-related series of thoughts from his mind and recalled the somewhat raucous atmosphere of Portland Place and its wonderful, albeit occasionally unsavory, patrons. 

While waiting their turn to step into the dance, one of the gentleman patrons (Aziraphale used this word loosely, even in his own mind) had noted a rather humorous connection between mind and body while drinking that he had observed within himself. His body would be able to wait extraordinary amounts of time before first relieving himself, but once that happened, he then would have to relieve himself quite frequently throughout the night, even if he were to stop drinking. 

Aziraphale had smiled and nodded at this observation, removing the gentleman’s hand from his shoulder as gently as possible, not really knowing what else to do in that particular situation since he was not bound by the same natural laws in many aspects, despite having a human-shaped vessel. 

Yet he could somewhat understand this anecdote now in an entirely different way. 

Following that one meal at the Ritz — not to be confused with The dinner at the Ritz, which had celebrated their tenuous victory and continued partnership the day after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t and immediately following their trials — where Aziraphale had overheard rather mundane but pointed comments regarding Crowley’s physical assets.

Aziraphale’s world, ever-so-slightly, had shifted. 

He noticed Crowley in a way that he hadn’t before, as if all of his human vessel’s senses were heightened whenever Crowley strode into the bookshop regardless of the shop hours sign with a smirk and a casual, “Hullo, angel.”

And now that he had begun to notice these details about Crowley, he couldn’t stop noticing them, just as the gentleman from Portland Place had described his own bodily functions. 

Aziraphale did, somewhat, bemoan the fact that this particular anecdote had become his frame of reference for this, but he supposed that this was just another foible of humanity creeping into his every day life. 

He had, after all, come away from that experience with more than a few human acquaintances at the time and the exhilarating rush of the gavotte. 

At first he had just assumed it was due to his insistence that Crowley remove his sunglasses in the bookshop. Crowley’s eyes were so beautiful and so expressive, and Aziraphale hadn’t seen nearly enough of them through the years, especially while Crowley was rambling passionately about his supposedly-demonic exploits. 

But it hadn’t stopped there and Aziraphale found himself reaching out in the smallest of ways.

***

One rainy day while walking down Old Compton Street, Crowley complained and blustered about the wind pelting him with raindrops as they ran in rivulets down his face. Aziraphale rather thought that Crowley looked like a Byronic hero, auburn hair slick against his face, water droplets falling from his bangs onto impossibly long eyelashes as his sunglasses slid down the bridge of his hawkish nose.

He didn’t voice this to Crowley at all, but Aziraphale also didn’t take his eyes off the demon as he miracled Crowley an umbrella. 

“I suppose it won’t hurt to do this, not now anyway, now that we’re on our own,” Aziraphale said, reaching up to hold it over Crowley’s head. 

“There’s some nice rainshade,” he said proudly, with a small smile up at Crowley.

“Give me that,” Crowley said crossly.

Grabbing the umbrella, Crowley brushed his slender fingers over Aziraphale’s stubbier ones and let them linger for a second before tearing the handle from Aziraphale’s hands. The canopy instantly doubled in size to cover both of them.

Aziraphale fluttered his hands nervously.

“No one calls it rainshade anymore, angel,” Crowley said. “And if you’re going to miracle one, you may as well make it enough for the both of us.”

***

Another day, in St. James’ Park, Crowley had taken to pelting the ducks with half-frozen pieces of bread — as for why it was frozen, Aziraphale hadn’t asked — while Aziraphale sat next to him in a companionable silence, reading his second edition of Shakespeare’s _Twelfth Night, or What You Will_. He hadn’t, as they say, the stomach to remove his first edition from the bookshop under any circumstances.

So Aziraphale was attempting to read his second edition while seated next to Crowley, but increasingly found the words blurring together on the page as he focused on how close Crowley’s hand was to his shoulder.

Crowley slouched all the time. The demon was likely no closer than he usually was. 

Yet Aziraphale couldn’t help himself. He moved his shoulder closer to Crowley in small increments, so Crowley’s fingertips, which were loosely draped over the back of the bench, were nearly brushing against his suit jacket. 

They touched, briefly, and Aziraphale shuddered involuntarily. 

“Cold, angel?”

“No, quite alright. Just reached a rather scary part.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“A rather scary part of the _Twelfth Night, or What You Will_?”

“Ah, yes?”

Crowley shrugged.

“At least it’s not _Hamlet_ ,” the demon said after a pause. 

And with that, Crowley resumed his aerial bread barrage, cackling to himself when he hit a duck directly in the beak. 

Crowley didn’t move his hand, before or following the exchange.

***

Then there was the time that Aziraphale had suggested a popular fusion restaurant that he knew Crowley would loathe.

Crowley had simply asked if there would be alcohol involved.

***

And that was the most curious thing of all. Every moment when Aziraphale reached out, Crowley seemed to reach out of his own accord and meet him where he stood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale, you're so close to figuring it out. ^ ^;


	5. It's the major minor detail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“This isn’t a proper cream tea, dear,” Aziraphale said without taking his eyes off of Crowley._
> 
> _Crowley grinned and ran a berry slowly through the cream before placing it on his lips_
> 
> _“I’m exploring my optionsssssss.”_
> 
> _Aziraphale swallowed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo! Mind the rating change and added tags. ^ ^
> 
> From here on out, there will be increased sexual tension and a few more scenes like the one at the end of this chapter. Anything truly explicit will be placed in a separate work (under the same series) much like the group of chapters from Crowley's perspective [that can be found here as: Can We Dance (Instead of Walking?)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19264060/chapters/45813511)
> 
> However, if you don't like sex scenes at all and wish to skip them, there's a convenient break before mention of this particular one starts with a *** in the center (although what comes before still has a lot of sexual tension.) 
> 
> I've been pleasantly surprised by the warm reception to this fic, so thanks for sticking with it. The comments and kudos are always much appreciated!

It was well-known to Aziraphale that Crowley didn’t eat. 

In the over 6,000 years that they had known each other, Aziraphale had taken the lead in all food-related matters. It tentatively began in that noisy popina in Rome, where Aziraphale had stuttered out the word “tempt” for the first time to a raised demon eyebrow and the hint of a genuine smile. 

Those oysters had been delightful. With a series of happy sighs, Aziraphale had chased every last one down with a swallow of wine, licking the salt taste of the sea from his fingers. 

Crowley, to Aziraphale’s surprise, had only eaten one and had spent the rest of the evening sampling large quantities of wine — in fairness, Aziraphale had done similarly where the wine was concerned — and watching Aziraphale eat with an increasingly bright expression. 

When Aziraphale had drunkenly pointed this out — with full intention of elaborating on how charming it was, and why the demon should smile more often — Crowley had fixed his mouth into a pout, drained the rest of his wine, and stomped out of the taberna with a slight hiss. 

“Sssssssee you around, angel,” Crowley had spat, licking his lips with a flick of his tongue, leaving Aziraphale full of good food and drink but just a bit empty all the same.

Thus began Aziraphale’s long and ultimately fruitless (Aziraphale paused to chuckle at the pun whenever it came to mind) journey through the ages to teach Crowley the joys of food. 

For humans, food was meant to be shared with those close to them as an expression of love and community. The creativity of humanity, what humans found to be edible, and how they transformed the raw ingredients that She had given them into something exponentially more meaningful and powerful — Aziraphale loved each and every human a bit more every time he tasted something new on his tongue. There was so much to experience, especially as humanity expanded throughout the entire Earth, organizing itself into separate societies and cultures. 

And Aziraphale, despite his best efforts to deny it — which ultimately amounted to a few useless mutterings under his breath, pacing about quietly, and waving of his hands to himself — wanted to share this with Crowley, the only other being on Earth who could possibly understand Aziraphale’s point of view. 

(Aziraphale didn’t admit the latter thought to himself until 1941, which should give a good frame of reference for his general emotional pace.)

So he continued to invite Crowley, whenever he happened upon the demon performing his dastardly deeds for Aziraphale to thwart, to a variety of meals. To Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley accepted his invitation exactly ninety-eight percent of the time. 

The two percent decline rate added up to a few times where Crowley had truly been preoccupied with some sort of human crisis that he had to exacerbate or suffer the consequences from down below — Aziraphale knew just how demanding bosses could be — and three times Crowley had not received Aziraphale’s missives due to being asleep. 

Crowley grumbled about attending (quite loudly and to anyone in earshot) one hundred percent of the time, but Aziraphale could sense a small burst of happiness whenever Aziraphale asked that only added to the angel’s insistence on asking the demon again and again. 

Just as it had been with the oysters in Rome, Crowley rarely ate and when he did taste something, it was at Aziraphale’s suggestion. So, Aziraphale quickly learned to pointedly mention something else on the menu that he wanted to try and Crowley would order it for him, allowing Aziraphale to make the most of every dining experience. If he wanted extra jam with his scones, Crowley would order it. If he wanted to try the freshest _uni_ in Japan but already had his plate loaded with _chuutoro_ , Crowley would order it. If he wanted a second dessert but didn’t want to appear gluttonous, Crowley would order it. The demon seemed content to watch Aziraphale eat while imbibing the finest alcohol and allowing that genuine smile, the shy one of which Aziraphale was so fond, to flit across his face. 

Aziraphale came to understand that his love of food must be similar to Crowley’s affinity for sleep. Both were quite human in theory and execution — two indulgences that the angel and demon appreciated for themselves as tethers to humanity and this world that they had grown so fond of. 

The world that was now, effectively, their home, as an eternal alliance of two in partnership with humanity. 

(Not that humanity was aware of this in the slightest outside of a few choice humans and one former antichrist who were not-so-coincidentally concentrated in Tadfield.)

Which brought the angel to his present predicament. 

After a fortnight of tentatively reaching out only to find Crowley inexplicably there, seemingly teasing and tempting him — Aziraphale couldn’t truly decide if these were purposeful attempts from Crowley, his heightened senses from that maddening conversation he had overheard at the Ritz, or a combination of the two — Crowley had suddenly, and without warning, decided to expand his culinary horizons. 

That is to say, Crowley began to eat with Aziraphale voluntarily and without suggestion. 

Currently, Crowley was seated beside him — Crowley always somehow found his way beside him at the table rather than across from him like usually humans arranged themselves — with a half-full cup of coffee and a wry smile. 

In front of Crowley sat a small dish of clotted cream and a bowl of blackberries sprinkled with sugar. 

Aziraphale began to regret suggesting that he ever had a craving for cream tea — you couldn’t always find a good one in London, not after having been spoilt by the originals in Devon and Cornwall years ago — the moment that Crowley had oddly ordered a side of blackberries, a black coffee (Aziraphale had tried in vain to hide his disgust) and nothing else. 

“This isn’t a proper cream tea, dear,” Aziraphale said without taking his eyes off of Crowley.

Crowley grinned and ran a berry slowly through the cream before placing it on his lips 

“I’m exploring my optionsssssss.” 

Aziraphale swallowed. 

Crowley made hissing sound oddly becoming in a rather earthly way, and Aziraphale’s human vessel was all too eager to respond, especially when Crowley crushed the blackberry against his lips, licking them along with his fingertips. Crowley’s tongue darted out to catch a trail of blackberry juice that threatened to dribble from the corner of his mouth down the demon’s chin. 

“It’s good, angel. Would you like a taste?”

The demon held out a berry towards Aziraphale’s mouth. 

Aziraphale, without hesitation, leaned forward, opening his mouth and closed his eyes. 

Crowley traced the blackberry over the angel’s lips first, leaving a slick trail of cream in its wake before pressing the berry into Aziraphale’s mouth. The demon’s fingers lingered, wiping off some of the cream and trailing his fingertips so Aziraphale couldn’t help but suck on them along with the berry. 

By the time Aziraphale opened his eyes, swallowing a moan that threatened to bubble up from his throat, Crowley had taken to sucking the last bit of cream from his own fingers.

“Sssssss’good isn’t it?” Crowley asked. 

His voice was thick with a hint of shyness that Aziraphale wanted to tease out further.

“Y’know, angel, I’m beginning to see why you enjoy food so much.”

Aziraphale bit back a whimper. 

***

The tea left Aziraphale jumpy in a way that he rarely had felt in his rather long life. This included the harrowing ride back to his bookshop in the demon’s Bentley. The entire situation found Aziraphale rooted to the bookshop’s entryway for a moment, tracing his fingers over his lips in awe and something else he couldn’t quite identify. 

Aziraphale wasn’t altogether inexperienced in matters of sex. He had, after all, been a willing participant in a gentlemen’s club. 

Here it’s worth noting that what Aziraphale considered being “not altogether inexperienced in matters of sex” could actually be pared down to a few self-indulgent bouts with masturbation ( _sans_ any other participant besides Aziraphale’s own human corporation). 

This should come as no surprise, especially given Aziraphale’s proclivities for human comforts like food, drink, and even dancing. However, it wasn’t necessary and, much like sleeping, Aziraphale hadn’t taken to it like he had to oysters or robust reds or the gavotte. 

He rarely felt the need for any physical stimulation, so he simply didn’t pursue it. 

“I shan’t,” Aziraphale said to no one before correcting himself.

“I shall not.” 

Yet moments later, Aziraphale found himself, laying on his back, on top of the sofa of the bookshop office. His head swam with Crowley and clotted cream and blackberries. 

Aziraphale hadn’t done this in many years. He hadn’t wanted to. Now all he could think of was food and Crowley and the fact that they could, theoretically, do whatever they wanted without their head offices’ formerly strict observation of their activities on Earth. 

The physical pleasure tingles up his entire body when Aziraphale dares to slip a hand underneath his trousers and stroke himself over the fabric of his underpants. He had forgotten what this felt like — and hadn’t felt aroused in years, or allowed himself to feel aroused in years, Aziraphale wasn’t certain of which reason it truly was — and it was shocking. 

_Would you like a taste?_

Crowley’s eyes. 

Crowley’s fingertips on Aziraphale’s mouth, cream and berry juice dripping down. 

“Please do,” Aziraphale begged, his voice pitched higher, ending with a moan. He squirmed and his hips bucked upward. 

Crowley’s shy smile. 

Crowley’s auburn hair pressed against his forehead as he looked up into the rain.

Crowley’s full lips. 

_“You are here to remind me of someone I long for. And what is it you long for yourself? We must have been together in an earlier life, you and I.”_

He shuddered and came with a shout, remembering Crowley reading poems from _The Tale of Genji_ at the park.

A white, iridescent feather floated down from above onto his face, and only after a slight delay did Aziraphale realize that his wings had unfurled rather unceremoniously from his back during climax.

After staring at the ceiling for several minutes — there was a large spider web above his desk, he noted — possibly hours, Aziraphale rolled onto his side and quietly miracled away the mess. 

Aziraphale rarely, even during his internal monologues and tangents, blasphemed. Now, the one profanity he had ever uttered aloud was the only word that came to mind. 

_Fuck_.


	6. It's the solitary sequel to never knowing anything at all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A blush began to rise on Aziraphale’s cheeks. The heat of the flush mingled with warmth from the tea he held in his hands, frozen between his lap and his mouth._
> 
> _Blushing was one of the few human functions that wasn’t, like breathing, practiced. It came unprompted, a byproduct of being issued a human body at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Crowley perspective of this chapter can be found here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19264060/chapters/46090237)
> 
> The next chapter (seven) of this story from Anathema's perspective can be found at [Everyone's Rooting For You.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409311)

Rain drummed against the windows of the bookshop. It fell in torrential curtains that completely obfuscated the well-lit interior from the dreary outside, making the shop hours sign illegible to any curious passers-by. 

Naturally, on a day like this one, Aziraphale hadn’t opened the shop at all. 

Steam rose from a large ceramic mug that Aziraphale had squeezed a few of his fingers through the handle on the right side and wrapped his left hand around the other side completely, effectively cupping the tea’s warmth directly in his hands. He smiled. One of his greatest pleasures in breathing came from inhaling the scent of a freshly-brewed cup of tea. 

Of the two of them, it was Aziraphale who implemented human functions out of diligence, while Crowley had taken to them naturally (albeit erratically, sometimes he simply forgot). Aziraphale had begun to breathe like one would practice scales before playing Chopin’s Ballade No. 1 in G minor, Op. 23, or run warm-ups before taking on a proper run. 

(Aziraphale had done neither of these things during his entire, quite lengthy, time on Earth.)

Breathing, or having a beating heart and pulse, these were physical concepts that Aziraphale performed to keep up appearances. He ran a bookshop in order to have an occupation — perhaps this wasn’t the best example, given his voracious appetite for collecting first editions and ancient tomes, but ultimately it also served as cover — and eating had begun as an effort to fit in, although it was much past that now. 

Without thinking at all about how these very human details of living had become natural parts of his every day life, Aziraphale continued to breathe in his tea. 

Rainy days brought a certain musty smell to the shop that put Aziraphale at ease, despite knowing that the moisture was quite bad for the books’ preservation.

Yet he couldn’t help but love the rain. 

There was something about rain that brought everything to a standstill, despite the flurry of activity from humans, the rush to get out from under the rain, piling wet jackets, hats, and wellies in entryways before basking in the warmth of coming indoors.

When that warmth hit, it was as if time itself stopped. 

It was all very human and mundane but beautiful. Aziraphale smiled softly in the warm lamplight of his back office, his gazed momentarily fixed at the rain beating against the glass, 

The last time it had rained, Crowley had brushed fingertips against his own, making a large enough canopy for the two of them to share as they walked down the street. 

_If you’re going to miracle one, you may as well make it enough for the both of us_.

Aziraphale shuddered and took a sip of his tea. 

Crowley’s hair had stuck to his forehead, water dripping from his bangs behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale couldn’t help but stare.

It had all been rather romantic in a human way. 

A blush began to rise on Aziraphale’s cheeks. The heat of the flush mingled with warmth from the tea he held in his hands, frozen between his lap and his mouth. 

Blushing was one of the few human functions that wasn’t, like breathing, practiced. It came unprompted, a byproduct of being issued a human body at all.

He hummed and looked across the room where a sleeping Crowley was currently curled up on his couch. The demon had a tall, lithe human body — here, Aziraphale flushed again in his study of Crowley — that he managed to fold to take up the smallest amount of space possible. Crowley had stubbornly put his sunglasses back on before dozing off, complaining about the light and the cold and the tea that Aziraphale had made him that he certainly didn’t need and was not going to drink. 

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale had said. “You were just complaining about the temperature rather loudly. This will heat you up in a jiffy.”

“No one says that,” Crowley had groused, flopping onto Aziraphale’s office sofa, water still dripping from his clothes and pooling on the fabric.

“Crowley, you’ll soil the sofa!”

“More than I do with my general presence?”

The demon gestured to his entire body, dressed impeccably in blacks and greys — albeit covered in rainwater at the moment, although if Aziraphale was being completely honest, even rainwater suited Crowley in a rather dashing way.

Aziraphale was not, at the time, being completely honest. 

“Crowley!”

“What is this made of anyway, angel? The water’s running right off it.”

“It’s treated,” Aziraphale had said with a sniff. “And I won’t give you your tea until you tidy up.”

“Oh, so you want a little demonic miracle, angel?”

“Crowley, really.”

With an exaggerated flourish, Crowley had dried himself with a snap of his fingers, rolling his shoulders forward with a disconcerting pop.

Aziraphale, who had blushed at the mention of “demonic miracle” — it always brought him back to the church in 1941 and the fact that Crowley had saved his books for him always and he wondered if Crowley knew — had held out the mug of tea. 

“Really dear, I would have thought with all of your whinging over the chill that you would have dried yourself off immediately.”

Still complaining about the cold, Crowley had moved towards the lamplight in the office, nearly basking in it while insisting on keeping his sunglasses on. 

Crowley had reached forward and accepted the mug, brushing his fingers against Aziraphale’s briefly but not — Aziraphale noted — lingering or leaning into the touch as he had on the day with the umbrella.

That cup of tea remained on the desk untouched, placed with care (although Crowley would never admit to it) so it was as far away from the rarest books that also scattered Aziraphale’s desktop. 

As if time itself had stopped. 

Aziraphale was under the impression that Crowley did things rather instinctively.

At some point since the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t — Aziraphale couldn’t remember exactly when, but they had immediately begun to make an effort to see each other at least once a day since so it could have been any of those days — Aziraphale had moved the lamp closer to the sofa for Crowley’s comfort. It was old and gave off a warm glow, unlike a more modern cold fluorescent. 

Since he moved the lamp, Crowley had taken to sitting closer to the lamp on that particular side of the sofa, much like a snake seeking heat.

After the tea exchange, they had lapsed into a comfortable silence. He read an old yet fascinating version of the Bible (Aziraphale was forever entertained by human interpretation of divinity) while Crowley laughed occasionally as he thumbed through a gossip rag, alternating between that and his cellular phone for entertainment. 

Aziraphale had looked up moments — perhaps hours, he still had a rather poor concept of time for the most part — to find Crowley curled up and still on the sofa. Crowley breathed naturally like a human sleeping, but was so still. 

He wondered if he was to remove Crowley’s glasses if the demon’s eyes would be open, like a snake at rest. 

He wondered what Crowley would do if he reached forward to cup Crowley's face. 

They were in a holding pattern. 

After allowing his urges to get the best of him that one night, Aziraphale had, with no small amount of embarrassment, backed off. He had barely been able to look Crowley in the eye the next day, and had returned to their usual routine to find his bearings again. 

Crowley had followed. 

There had been brief touches, but nothing like the cream tea, no sly glances or innuendos beyond what Crowley would have done prior to the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. 

Usually, Aziraphale would be comforted by the familiarity of it all. Aziraphale loved his routines. 

Now it made him more uncomfortable. 

He didn’t know why. 

Aziraphale stared at his book without reading it while Crowley slept on. He resisted the urge to brush Crowley’s bangs from the demon’s face. 

The rain drummed against the windows. His tea was cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For everyone mad at Aziraphale figuratively spinning his wheels, something will happen in the next chapter to finally force him to move forward, it was simply necessary to make him realize that he wouldn't be happy going back to the way things were.


	7. And the fear of having to go back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale flushed again. She could tell all that just from the few moments she had seen him and Crowley together?_
> 
> _“He loves you. I don’t need a prophecy to know that. If anything, I would have thought that you were…uninterested.”_
> 
> _The angel didn’t know how to respond to this. Not right away, anyways, and settled for sipping his tea while he struggled to answer. He felt flustered and, somehow, a bit angry and defensive._
> 
> _Uninterested._
> 
> _Uninterested!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anathema's point of view of this entire exchange can be found here: [Everyone's Rooting For You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409311).

Another curious, but not unexpected, similarity between angels and demons and their human charges is a shared inability to recognize emotions within themselves that they can easily identify from the outside in another. 

This particularly applies to angels and demons, who can sense love and despair as extensions of their very existence while also attempting to sow these respective emotions throughout the Earth. After all, an angel without love, isn’t an angel at all and neither is a demon without despair, even Crowley, who was certainly on the more palatable side as far as demons were concerned. 

If a human is having some sort of trouble with their family, their closest friend cannot simply vacate body and mind and enter their friend’s mind in order to understand. They cannot ever truly step outside of their own skin and _know_ another. There’s no way for them to completely discard their own personal experiences and everything that makes them a certain individual human in order to truly empathize with the other as not-themself.

It’s this great distance between people — or celestial beings had they included them, and they didn’t for reasons that are quite obvious, “existence precedes essence” and all of that — that concerned the existentialists and Earth’s endless supply of philosophers. 

Aziraphale read the works of these scholars, philosophers, and great human thinkers with the expression of a doting parent that doesn’t at all follow what their offspring are talking about but still manages to be proud and attends every gallery showing, tennis match, one-person show, or videogame tournament. Humans were such clever creatures and Aziraphale loved them so. 

(Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre surely would have been mortified at the angel’s attention.)

All of this isn’t to say that empathy is dead — Aziraphale would never believe so anyway — but that you cannot become another and suddenly know them as they know themself. Even Aziraphale, who had swapped bodies with Crowley and come out the other side with a newfound appreciation for Crowley’s suffering, couldn’t know Crowley in that way.

Similarly, it’s often easier to recognize something in someone else than one’s self because of that distance. Less internal baggage related to the immediate subject and all that. 

It certainly was for Aziraphale who was a being of love that smiled upon couples that passed him in the streets or, at times when he wasn’t in trouble with Up Above for performing too many miracles, gave humans with great affection for each other a gentle emotional prod in the right direction. 

Aziraphale now found himself completely alone in a closely-related subject: the matter of his own feelings towards Crowley. 

At this specific moment, Aziraphale was sitting in front of a stack of discarded pro-con lists on his desk. A human had once recommended the idea regarding something far more mundane than Aziraphale’s figurative heart and the angel had taken to making these lists immediately. 

Despite the look of his shop to outsiders, and his frequently-rumpled attire, Aziraphale loved when things were order. Everything in the bookshop had its place, even if it was organized by a system that only Aziraphale knew. It had certainly seemed to confound Crowley, who had somehow managed to place every book in the exact opposite position*.

Aziraphale laughed aloud to himself. It was a bright, musical sound that filled his back office. 

He had chided Crowley throughout the process, finally working up the courage to look the demon in the eye through the waves of guilt over his prurient actions the night before with Crowley specifically in mind. It wasn’t as if Crowley could possibly know, but Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel embarrassed as if he’d violated Crowley without the demon’s permission in some way. 

And Crowley, Crowley had simply smirked through the afternoon and put books in all the wrong places and refused to move his glasses no matter how much Aziraphale pouted. 

No sooner had Aziraphale backed off than Crowley had pushed away too. 

There was something important about this fact that Aziraphale felt was just slightly out of his grasp. 

In a rare moment of frustration he forcefully folded all of his pro-con lists and placed them neatly in his wastepaper recycling bin. During previous times of great frustration, especially in recent years leading up to the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, Aziraphale would have come up with a flimsy excuse to see Crowley and managed to ask the demon for advice in the most roundabout way possible. 

He couldn’t possibly ask Crowley about this. 

At other times of confusion, Aziraphale had sought out simple human advice on mundane things in what were actually quite awkward exchanges for the mortals involved — usually would-be customers or anyone in a service position. 

(It said something that Aziraphale had never thought to go to anyone in Heaven with his personal concerns, but if this occurred to Aziraphale at all, he quickly brushed that thought aside.)

Aziraphale loved humanity dearly, and had enjoyed the privilege of many human friends over the years, but none with which he could share his true nature without great risk to himself and the human involved. 

Not even Oscar, one of his closest human friends, had known**. 

This presented Aziraphale with a remarkably short list of potential human confidants. 

Adam was out of the question. He was just a boy, although Adam’s close friend Pepper did come to the angel’s mind as a good choice for seeking advice from — she asked a lot of questions, after all and seemed smart as a whip — were she a human adult. 

Madam Tracy was another option, but Aziraphale still felt badly about taking over her body and, if he was being completely honest, she had been a bit much. 

Sergeant Shadwell also was out of the question. Aziraphale could barely understand him half the time. 

This left only two humans: Anathema Device, the American witch, or her boyfriend who was unnaturally bad with computers (as She had intended, Aziraphale thought with a smile) whose name Aziraphale couldn’t recall at the moment. 

Miss Device it was. He hoped she wouldn’t mind him barging into her life like this, but the angel was desperate and seemingly out of other options. 

She was also a witch, and Aziraphale couldn’t rule out that this could give her additional insight to his situation.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, mentally preparing himself for a trip to California, before realizing that the witch’s presence was much closer. 

Tadfield, to be exact. 

“Oh, how wonderful,” Aziraphale said aloud into the low lamplight of his back office. He was happy that the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t had brought these two together, even more than his general happiness at human couples due to the specific circumstances. 

The proper bus trip to Tadfield was a lengthy one with several transfers, and would give Aziraphale time to sort out exactly what it was that he wanted to say. 

It was 4:00, still night and well before most humans were awake, yet Aziraphale couldn’t sit still. He cast one final glance at his abandoned pro-con lists, noticing a bright splash of blue sky, snow-capped mountains, and a prop plane. It was _Vol de Nuit_ , the book that Crowley had been rambling about that one night. 

The angel preferred St-Exupéry’s _The Little Prince_ — it was good as literature in his opinion, never mind those who, missing the point completely, said it was simply good “for a children’s book” — but had read _Vol de Nuit_ ages ago. Now, he couldn’t recall the plot, although he knew it had something to do with a plane disappearing. 

Aziraphale tucked it into his pocket. Once he sorted out his thoughts properly, he could have a bit of light reading on the way. 

If it had captured Crowley’s attention of all beings, there must be something about it that he had missed.

***

Once on the doorstep of Jasmine Cottage at precisely 9:00, Aziraphale found himself without the slightest idea of how to broach the subject or even introduce himself.

Fortunately, Anathema Device must have known he was coming — she was a witch, after all — because he was only out there for a moment of handwringing before she opened the door. 

“Can I help you?”

Aziraphale was so flustered, he didn’t correct the obvious grammatical mistake. 

“My dear girl,” he said with a slight bow of introduction. It seemed the proper thing to do in such an awkward situation. 

“I don’t know if you recall that entire business with the Antichrist but—“

“I remember.”

She was quite direct. 

“Ah yes, well,” he said, rocking back and forth on his heels. “One cannot be too careful in assuming what one remembers.”

She didn’t seem upset at all, but rather cooly resigned. Aziraphale wondered if this was her nature. He barely knew her personally, after all. 

“Please, come in.”

She gestured through the open door, standing aside and allowing the angel to pass with another nervous bow. Aziraphale watched a small smile bloom on her face. It stayed there as she motioned for him to take a seat at her kitchen table. 

It was a charming setting, with a bright tablecloth and biscuits on decorative plate. There was a vase of daisies that Crowley would have loved but pretended that he didn’t care at all about. 

Aziraphale smiled. 

She slid a mug of tea in his direction. 

“I never make it to an English person’s liking but I try,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand it.”

He hummed and sipped slowly. It was far too weak for his tastes but he certainly wasn’t going to tell Miss Device this. 

“It’s not bad.”

The witch accepted this with a shrug. 

“What brings you here?” she asked after a moment.

“You’re rather direct,” Aziraphale said, his voice fond with the general love he had for humans and their quirks. 

She shrugged again.

“I’m American.”

Aziraphale supposed that was as good of an explanation of her temperament as any. 

“Ah, quite right.”

Steeling himself, Aziraphale placed his mug on the table again and looked up directly at her. He squared his shoulders. The bus ride down had given him time to think more on Crowley’s actions over several millennia, but Aziraphale had found by the end of it that he was no closer to understanding what he wanted to ask. 

“My dear girl,” he began. “You are still a witch, are you not?”

He was relieved when she nodded. Aziraphale hadn’t been sure of just how much had been restored or changed by Adam.

“You need a witch for a specific reason,” she said. 

“I’m not sure exactly,” Aziraphale admitted. “After all of that business in Tadfield you were the only human I could think of with which to discuss ah, a matter of a delicate nature.”

She accepted this with a nod.

Now Aziraphale found himself at an impasse. He couldn’t very well ask, “Do you think demons can love?” Or “If demons can love why can’t I sense it?” Or “Do you, as a witch, believe it morally wrong to love a demon?”

He decided to start with whether there were any further prophecies regarding him and Crowley. Perhaps that would clear a few things up.

He sighed.

“Did the Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch say, by any chance, anything about—“

“You and your demon companion?” 

“C-companion?”

Ordinarily, Aziraphale would have been slightly miffed at the interruption, but he was so overwhelmed at the word “companion” that he sputtered and blustered and picked at one of his waistcoat buttons with his right hand. 

“Y-yes, I suppose Crowley is my, well, that’s why I’m here you see.”

“Beyond the final prophecy?” she asked.

“Yes we managed to solve that one in time,” he said, smiling at the memory.

“You and Newt, she said things about you two being together,” he continued, remembering the fond spike of affection between the two of them. 

“That doesn’t mean we have to be together.”

Aziraphale was a bit taken aback by this, but the more he thought about it the more she was right. They were obviously fond of each other, but this young woman in particular had been ruled by prophecies since she was younger. 

Her reaction reminded him a bit of, well, himself post-Apocalypse-that-wasn’t and wasn’t that something. Being able to talk about this was wonderful, albeit still awkward.

“Quite right, my dear girl,” he said proudly. 

“You came here to ask me if Agnes ever had a prophecy about a romantic relationship between you and your demon partner?”

Aziraphale choked on his tea. 

“She didn’t say anything about you outside of that one prophecy, playing with fire or something. It was one of her final notations.”

Dabbing the stray drops of tea from the table with his handkerchief, Aziraphale fought the urge to sigh again. 

“She didn’t need to. And if it helps, I thought you two were already involved.”

He felt his cheeks heat up with a flush. Aziraphale cleared his throat. 

“Ah. Was it because of the prophecy?”

The angel watched an amused expression flicker across her face.

“No,” she said. 

She leaned forward across the table as if she was about to divulge a large secret.

“It was because I have eyes.”

Aziraphale flushed again. She could tell all that just from the few moments she had seen him and Crowley together?

“He loves you. I don’t need a prophecy to know that. If anything, I would have thought that you were…uninterested.”

The angel didn’t know how to respond to this. Not right away, anyways, and settled for sipping his tea while he struggled to answer. He felt flustered and, somehow, a bit angry and defensive.

Uninterested. 

Uninterested! 

It was exactly the opposite, and he opened his mouth to admit exactly that, aloud, for the first time in his existence. 

“Ah, it wasn’t that I was uninterested it was that, well, I had Heaven looking after me, not very closely of course or they would have sussed out our Arrangement. Then there was Hell to think about. Absolutely awful place. I never want him to have to go back there again.”

She nodded. 

“I suppose I’ve pushed him away for so long I can’t possibly know what to do now, and now he, and my dear girl even though you have said that he, well, I’m an angel. I’m supposed to feel love and I haven’t— I would feel it, right?”

That hadn’t come out right at all, but he hoped she understood the gist of it.

“You know Adam asked me to read his aura once.”

“Did he?”

She hummed agreeably.

“I couldn’t sense it.”

Confused, Aziraphale looked up from his tea and wondered how that could be possible. Adam’s aura was massive and had covered the entire country.

“It wasn’t until after everything had happened that I realized it was because it was so large I couldn’t sense it." 

“Oh.”

Aziraphale was still confused. He couldn’t understand why she had chosen to share this or what it had to do with Crowley. Aziraphale was usually quite in tune with Crowley’s aura and hadn’t felt anything out of the ordinary.

He had thought that he couldn’t sense any changes in Crowley’s aura because Crowley didn’t (or couldn’t) love him. 

But what if it had always been this way. 

Crowley had always been this way. He had always felt the same. 

The ramifications of this realization hit Aziraphale immediately. 

“Oh!” 

She smiled at him as if she had heard every thought.

“You know,” she continued. “I was always a descendent, since I was small. Agnes sent me another set of prophecies, you know.”

Still struck by his epiphany, Aziraphale was slow to look up. 

“Ah forgive me for inquiring again, but I had thought you said that there were no further prophecies.”

“I burned them.”

Aziraphale coughed.

“Newt asked me if I wanted to be a descendent my entire life.”

Her voice became wistful. The angel recognized something in it, a certain nostalgia, that drew him towards her.

“I didn’t want that. But, sometimes I wish that I still had it, that feeling of safety.”

He recognized, for the second time that morning, that Miss Device was a kindred spirit of sorts. They both had lived their lives planned out by others for so long and now had to make their way forward. 

Aziraphale didn’t want to go back to Heaven, just as Miss Device no longer wanted to be a descendant. 

But he still missed it dearly. While he enjoyed his newfound freedom, he missed the sense of being an important part of something greater than himself. 

His eyes welled up with tears and he suppressed a sniffle. 

“I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but I’ll say it anyway. He loves you, your Crowley. And I don’t need a prophetic book to know that.”

“My dear girl, I know.”

The words slipped past Aziraphale’s lips before he knew what he was saying.

He did know.

Gorgeous, magnificent Crowley who had comforted him from the beginning on The Garden wall, looking proud that Aziraphale had dared give away Her sword. 

“I’ve always known,” he said, stunned.

She smiled a rare, dazzling grin that stretched across her face.

***

On the long bus ride back to London — again, the proper route, not the one Crowley had miracled the night after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t from the Oxford route — Aziraphale pulled one of Miss Device’s biscuits from his pocket that he had wrapped neatly in a handkerchief and his first edition of _Vol de Nuit_.

He began to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Crowley's side of this [can be found here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19264060/chapters/46090237). Aziraphale is very dense sometimes. ^ ^;
> 
> **Oscar Wilde
> 
> Thanks for sticking with this story! This chapter was incredibly difficult to write.


	8. You'll hear the piano sound, and know someone turned around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For perspective, in the grand scheme of Aziraphale’s extraordinarily long life, rereading_ Vol de Nuit _took the equivalent of less than a second in an average human lifespan._
> 
> _Humans have myriad sayings for how one’s life can change in an instant. All of them applied to Aziraphale in this moment. Everything that came before was suddenly separated from all that would come afterwards._

The usual bus ride to London from Tadfield — the slow path, also known as the very human path, as Aziraphale would say with a happy smile to Crowley had the demon been there with him — was a mess of hours and transfers. 

Rereading Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s _Vol de Nuit_ took under an hour of Aziraphale’s time, less than half of the bus route which was really no time at all. Crowley had drunkenly rambled about the small book the other night for what seemed like almost an equal amount of time it took for Aziraphale to read it on that particular afternoon bus ride. Aziraphale was a remarkably fast reader for reasons that had nothing to do with his angelic nature and everything to do with his own voracious appetite for human literature.

In fact, this particular hunger for anything literary could certainly be seen as rather un-angelic by his superiors. 

The book itself was also quite short — under 100 pages in total. 

For perspective, in the grand scheme of Aziraphale’s extraordinarily long life, rereading _Vol de Nuit_ took the equivalent of less than a second in an average human lifespan. 

Humans have myriad sayings for how one’s life can change in an instant. All of them applied to Aziraphale in this moment. Everything that came before was suddenly separated from all that would come afterwards. 

There were multiple reasons for this. 

The first is obvious. Aziraphale’s rigid worldview had already been loosened significantly whether he wanted to admit it or not. 

(He found, upon further introspection during this trip, that he didn’t mind admitting this in the slightest.)

Crowley had been chipping away at it for years — sometimes intentionally, at other times without any specific intent other than to make Aziraphale smile, causing the angel to reevaluate his thoughts on demons before attempting to quash these presumed insidious thoughts.

At the memories, Aziraphale smiled to himself on the bus. Passengers on the same route suddenly felt their burdens eased and a lightening of their hearts as Aziraphale recalled the demon’s antics through the years.

The second was their recent freedom from Up Above or Down Below. 

Aziraphale wasn’t certain as to how long their respective head offices would leave them alone, but he estimated that it would be at least five human years. After all, as established by the discrepancy between length of time it took to reread this particular book and his immortal lifespan, human lives seemed remarkably short in comparison to his existence. Five years was nothing, a mere bagatelle for Heaven to regroup and reconsider Aziraphale’s role on earth — an apt comparison to a few minutes for a human heart.

The third, and most pertinent to this moment in time, was Saint-Exupéry’s _Vol de Nuit_. 

This was directly related to the aforementioned reasons because it was Crowley who had brought the book to Aziraphale’s attention — by extension, Crowley’s own discovery of the book had been brought about through their short stint in each others’ corporations, although Aziraphale hadn’t made this connection himself. 

Above all else, Aziraphale remembered it as the book Crowley had brandished after that dinner where the waitstaff had attempted to ask Crowley to a date. He didn’t much remember what Crowley had been saying about it — and felt an acute pang of guilt because really, Crowley had actually taken the time to read something and Aziraphale hadn’t bothered to listen to his thoughts on it — but he remembered Crowley’s pouting lips and slender fingers, and passion while speaking. 

Aziraphale squirmed slightly in his seat, pressing his thighs together firmly at the memory. Another wave of happiness, rose-coloured at the edges with something more urgent and passionate, swept through the passengers on the bus. 

The angel was, unintentionally, making this a rather nice journey for them all, having a grand epiphany in such a mundane place. 

A literary connoisseur —or gourmand depending on how one viewed Aziraphale’s reading habits — Aziraphale tended to research authors alongside their works. This was frequently done by living through a said time period with them, he was an immortal being after all, and sometimes by researching an author through other texts. 

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Aziraphale recalled, had been a French pilot whose plane disappeared in 1944. _Vol de Nuit_ was his first major work and used, as nearly all of his books did, aviation and flight as a frame of reference. Aziraphale still remembered his first impression of _Vol de Nuit_. The story hadn’t stuck with him at all — neither had that of _Le Petit Prince_ , which the angel remembered as wholly charming but little else — but the descriptions of flying were poetic and creative. 

He marvelled at how flightless humans could capture the feeling of flying and Saint-Exupéry was as good as any author at doing so, certainly from personal experience. It was with this thought in mind that the angel opened the book on the bus, head still swimming from his illuminating tête-à-tête with Miss Device. 

By the time the angel turned the final page, one single tear streaked down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away and steadied himself.

Aziraphale couldn’t imagine how he had so completely missed the narrative upon first reading it years ago, but he supposed that he hadn’t been ready to accept it. It was about flying, but also about orders and plans and giving one’s life to a cause that could be all for naught and—

“Oh, _Crowley_.” 

The words slipped from his lips into the air with reverence. If they could be somehow seen visibly, they would have shimmered with love. 

Hours later, when Aziraphale finally returned to the bookshop, he phoned Crowley immediately. 

“Crowley, my dear, it’s Aziraphale! I can never quite get the hang of these messaging machines so I hope you’ll forg— ah, I do hope you’ll ignore the fact that I’m not likely to do this ‘in style’ as you say. As it so happens, I was feeling a bit peckish after a short trip today and what do you know there was a table open at the Ritz for tonight at half past our usual time. Could I tempt you to dine with me this evening? There are a few things I would like to discuss with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be the opening of what turned into a much larger chapter (an unwieldy 3,000+ word beast) so I decided to separate this particular section off. I think it works better with Aziraphale's epiphany being completely isolate from what's to come so hopefully it works for you all as well. I've been so overwhelmed with the positive response to this story and really hope that people continue to enjoy it.
> 
> (Also you may have noticed that the chapter count went up as a result.)
> 
> Some of the significance of _Vol de Nuit_ is mentioned here but more of it will be explained in Crowley's perspective chapter in this fic's companion piece and also later when Aziraphale takes Crowley to dinner. It's not chosen lightly.
> 
> "The slow path" is, if anyone caught it, a tiny Doctor Who shout-out. I couldn't resist. ^ ^;


	9. It's the circus I bring on whenever I reach out to touch you my dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale took a deep breath as he sat down._
> 
> _“Crowley,” he began again. “Can demons feel love?”_
> 
> _His words hung heavily in the night air, adding a weighty layer that was almost like humidity, cloying and pressing down on both of them. He could still walk this back, so to speak. Like all other times before he could obey the ever-present pressure, pushing at the back of his mind, telling him to stop._
> 
> _This was the furthest that Aziraphale had pushed and he still could deny his feelings if he wanted._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY.

“Crowley, my dear, it’s Aziraphale! I can never quite get the hang of these messaging machines so I hope you’ll forg— ah, I do hope you’ll ignore the fact that I’m not likely to do this ‘in style’ as you say. As it so happens, I was feeling a bit peckish after a short trip today and what do you know there was a table open at the Ritz for tonight at half past our usual time. Could I tempt you to dine with me this evening? There are a few things I would like to discuss with you.”

With this, Aziraphale placed the handset of his rotary phone gently in its cradle.

“Better get a wiggle on, then.”

The words were softly spoken but lingered in the dusty air of the bookshop. He glanced at the worn sofa on which Crowley frequently lazed about when the demon was present. He could almost hear Crowley’s voice in a low drawl, admonishing him for having the audacity to say “wiggle on.” 

Aziraphale laughed. He stretched his arms out and cracked his knuckles before placing his hands on his waistcoat and standing up straight.

There was work to be done, beginning with actually clearing a spot at the Ritz. The angel winced as he surreptitiously removed a couple from the reservation list, making sure that something pleasant was in their immediate future as a substitute.

***

Aziraphale wasn’t one to pace. Or, if he was, it had been drummed out of him long ago, no sooner had the urge bubbled to the surface, manifesting itself in fluttery gestures of his human corporation. Heaven wasn’t particularly accepting of strong emotional swings or the variety of human quirks that had long since been a part of this particular vessel of Aziraphale’s.

Although Aziraphale was a bit uncertain as to whether what he currently had was a new corporation or the restoration of the old one. He wasn’t up-to-date on the particulars of Antichrist restoration techniques, after all. The mechanics seemed identical, down to the very human Effort that had been troubling him so much over the past month.

He coughed, politely placing his palm over his mouth despite the fact that the sign was decidedly turned to “Closed” and there would be no one to see him do so. 

Whenever he had excess nervous energy, Aziraphale settled for clasping his hands behind his back to avoid fluttering or twitching, something that Gabriel had sternly advised against during several of their chats over the years. With a burst of defiance, Aziraphale unclasped his hands and rested them on his waistcoat instead, tapping at the buttons restlessly. He began to walk around the bookshop in circles, picking up an ancient feather duster that spread dust and broken feathers more than it cleaned anything, under the pretense of dusting the misprinted bible section. 

“Angel.”

Aziraphale gave a quiet squeak, dropping the feather duster on the ground. A cloud of dust rose from the floor where it clattered against a stack of first editions that he had left out. 

“Oh! Crowley! You’re here early.”

“I’m here exactly one minute before you said I should be here,” Crowley said airily. There was a layer of fondness to the amusement in his voice that Aziraphale silently berated himself for not hearing years ago. 

Surely it had always been there. 

“Well.”

Aziraphale dusted off his hands on his trousers only to discover that they left rather alarming dusty palm prints. He looked up at Crowley intently. 

“A hand, dear?”

Although Aziraphale couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes behind the traditional dark lenses, he knew that Crowley was somehow rolling them in a way completely counter to their reptilian design. 

“Too many frivolous miracles again?”

If Crowley’s voice had previously been fond, this statement was said with downright affection. Now that they were both presumably free of interference, there was no reason for Aziraphale to ask Crowley for this. He did so anyway, and preened as the dust miraculously rose from his trousers without lifting a finger. Beaming, he held out an arm to Crowley and nodded. “Shall we, Crowley?”

Crowley made an odd guttural noise at the back of his throat but slipped his arm into Aziraphale’s all the same. Aziraphale patted the demon’s hand, causing Crowley to jump several centimetres in the air before looking at Aziraphale suspiciously.

“You alright, angel? Haven’t heard anything from…?”

The demon raised his index finger and pointed at the ceiling. 

Aziraphale shook his head rapidly.

“Oh goodness no! Nothing like that. I just wanted to have a nice dinner and a chat.”

Crowley appeared unconvinced but his shoulders relaxed minutely. 

“Are you ready to go, my dear? I thought we would walk.”

Crowley stumbled forward with another odd noise. To his disappointment, Aziraphale felt Crowley releasing his arm. The demon took a step back while peering down at him, glasses slipping on his nose so that Aziraphale could see his eyes. 

“You sure you’re okay? You’re not one for— I mean, I brought the Bentley.”

Aziraphale pouted. After a long pause, a thrill shot through his corporation as Crowley sighed and took his arm again. 

“Lead the way, angel.”

***

The dinner itself was uneventful. Aziraphale recognized the husky voice of their server as one of the young women who had fawned over Crowley previously. She too was quite pretty by human standards, with dark skin, a rounded jaw, and a nose that turned up ever-so-slightly. He watched as she blushed when her fingers brushed against Crowley’s to collect the wine menu and leaned over the demon’s shoulder to list the specials.

For his part, Crowley was wholly unaffected, treating her with an air of indifference with which the demon approached most adult humans. Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a bit badly for her as she watched Crowley slide his dessert, catching slightly on the tablecloth, across the table to him when he asked. 

“M’sorry,” the young woman whispered to Aziraphale as Crowley had begged off to either pay the bill or attend to himself. His head swimming a bit from the wine, Aziraphale couldn’t remember what Crowley had said exactly as the demon had risen from the table, only that Aziraphale had patted his hand before he left. 

“Whatever for, my dear?” 

Aziraphale smiled pleasantly up at her. 

“It’s not right to— I wouldn’t have been so— I didn’t realize you two were partners,” she finally said, stumbling through her apology. “It’s not right to try and pull someone else’s partner.”

She winced as she said the word “pull” as if it physically hurt her. 

“He didn’t look at me or Briony once but now I know why.”

This was mumbled softly and self-deprecatingly in a way that Aziraphale was certain he was not meant to hear.

“No harm done, my dear girl,” he said, failing to correct her assumptions. After all, he and Crowley were technically partners already in a way and he had desperately hoped to transition this into, well, something else he supposed. Head still swimming he patted her hand gently.

“No harm done.”

“Ready to go, angel?”

Aziraphale looked up, momentarily startled by the fact that Crowley was holding out his arm to him like he had done in the bookshop. Beaming, he put his arm into Crowley’s as he stood, leaning a bit on the demon’s shoulder to steady himself. 

“I thought we could take a turn around the park before heading to the shop, my dear.”

Crowley grunted and nodded.

***

_He didn’t look at me or Briony once but now I know why._

“Crowley—“ 

The words of the Ritz waitstaff still echoed in his head as he trailed off, unsure as to how to continue. He had wracked his brain throughout the bus ride back to London — since he left Miss Device’s house so suddenly, really — in between passages of _Vol de Nuit._ He had puttered around the bookshop, dusting and organizing and shuffling and still hadn’t come up with a way to say what he wanted to say. Aziraphale had hoped that the dinner would help give him the words, but it had been just another, albeit lovely, dinner. 

Aziraphale was confident and sound enough to realize that Crowley would never leave him. He certainly didn’t hold it against the Ritz waitress to make an attempt with the demon — Crowley looked exceptionally beautiful in both the soft light of the Ritz and the cool moonlight in the park — but her approach, and the wine, inspired his own attempt. 

Crowley watched him expectantly, a bemused expression on his face. As they unwittingly took another turn around the park, feet mindlessly leading them in circles, it became apparent that Aziraphale was still at a loss of what exactly to say. Crowley led him to a nearby park bench, where he leaned back as he sat. Removing his sunglasses, Crowley looked up at the moon. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath as he sat down. 

“Crowley,” he began again. “Can demons feel love?”

His words hung heavily in the night air, adding a weighty layer that was almost like humidity, cloying and pressing down on both of them. He could still walk this back, so to speak. Like all other times before he could obey the ever-present pressure, pushing at the back of his mind, telling him to stop. 

This was the furthest that Aziraphale had pushed and he still could deny his feelings if he wanted. 

He knew somehow, were he do to this, obey that voice that dangerously sounded a lot like Gabriel, the damage would be irreparable. Crowley wouldn’t leave him. He knew that Crowley would never leave him, but the wound to their relationship would be immense, making it more tenuous than it had been in millennia. He might not see much of Crowley for a large amount of time. 

Aziraphale didn’t want that. After being forced to ignore the demon — despite having done a rather poor job of it — for millennia, he didn’t want to be apart from Crowley ever again. 

“They cannot.”

The demon’s voice was harsh and clipped. 

“Ah, I didn’t think so.”

He paused again, swallowing unnecessarily. 

“Yet, what I meant is, well, my dear, I know you cannot feel love coming from others or Her love but you can feel it of your own accord? Towards something or… someone?”

Crowley stared at him, golden irises shining in the moonlight, unblinking and impossibly still. Aziraphale thought that he looked a bit like a character in one of the myriad novels he had read in his lifetime who was doomed to die: fierce, resigned, and just a touch exhausted. 

Going into the evening, Aziraphale hadn’t harboured any doubts of Crowley’s love for him, but if he had, they would have vanished at the sight of the demon’s facial expression now. 

“You see,” Aziraphale continued speaking with the fervent hope that the words would come to him eventually. “I’m not certain how much you remember but for an angel it’s a bit like… well we’re expected to love everything and we do. It’s a bit like what the humans call white noise. Oh, we can feel different levels of it but on the whole it’s always there.”

Crowley hadn’t moved at all. 

No sooner had he opened his mouth to try to explain his feelings to Crowley than Aziraphale realized that there were several parts of being the first of the two to admit his love that the angel felt rather uncomfortable with. The more he thought on it, the more he knew that denying Crowley this chance would be doing the demon a great disservice. Flashes of their encounters moved rapidly through his mind — Crowley had loved him for so long, Aziraphale realized. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. He would be the one to accept Crowley’s offer. He just had to make the demon see, that after all of the pushing and pulling, that he was finally ready to accept it. 

Aziraphale sniffled. 

“It’s always there,” he repeated. “And—“

“Angel.” 

Crowley finally interrupted Aziraphale’s rambling. His voice was low and hoarse. It made Aziraphale tremble, shivering despite a surprisingly — some would say miraculously — temperate evening.

Aziraphale stopped talking. He looked up at Crowley who was now staring with an intensity that Aziraphale could feel crackling in the air. Moonlight fell onto Aziraphale from behind Crowley, making a cool-coloured halo around the demon’s auburn hair. 

He gasped at the sight. Crowley really was so beautiful. 

“Angel,” Crowley repeated. “Demons can’t feel the love of others like angels can, but they can love.”

Aziraphale leaned forward as Crowley traced his slender fingertips against a now-damp cheek, looping an index finger into one of Aziraphale’s curls above his ear.

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley whispered his name reverently. Aziraphale shuddered. He couldn’t last remember when Crowley had called him by name. It gave the moment an impossible weight. In a tree above them, a bird that had been chirping softly throughout the exchange fell silent. The entire park stood still, as if Crowley had snapped his fingers and time had stopped. 

“I love you, Aziraphale.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've agonized over this chapter for a while. I'm so sorry for how long it took to get this out.
> 
> [This chapter from Crowley's perspective.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19264060/chapters/48269815)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a song called "Minor Detail" by Sondre Lerche.


End file.
